BRODIE
IWASN’T SURE WHAT THE FUCKIHAD DONE TO SEND HER FLEEING. After Emery ran into the bathroom I stood uncertainly in the kitchen and raked a hand through my hair.Food.I’d make us something to eat. And maybe a hot cup of tea. Madge swore by it for any occasion.
I rooted through the pantry and ice box until I figured out what I wanted to do, and then began assembling the ingredients on the island chopping block. Potatoes, vegetables, ground beef...I’d make us a proper shepherd’s pie.
The task came easily, almost mindlessly to me and I had the potatoes boiling and the beef browning in no time. My mam had made the best shepherd’s pie when I was a chap. Even after she died, I’d found solace in recreating the comforting dish. Maybe Emery would find the same solace in eating it.
Something was tearing the girl apart. I had my suspicions as to what it might be and had pushed in every way I knew how to get her to talk, but she was a vault. Pain and anger simmered just beneath her skin, and I knew from my own experience that it would erupt soon. She reminded me of myself, after my sister’s death. I had been a bomb built of rage and torment and grief, just waiting for someone to put their finger on the trigger.
Emery carried the same devastation.
She reentered the kitchen as I was pushing the completed dish into the oven. “That smells good,” she said, voice hoarse. “I’m glad you cook because I certainly don’t.”
“Shepherd’s pie. Mam’s recipe.”
“Mam meaning mother?”
I nodded, taking her in across the counter. Her face was puffy and her eyes reddened, her skin blotchy in places. “Why the tears,macushla?”
She ignored the question. “What does that mean?”
I frowned. I’d slipped the endearment without thought. “It’s difficult to translate.”Darling.“Nothing much.”My pulse, my vein.
“Where is your mother? Does she know you’re an assassin?”
I passed a cup of hot tea to her, watching as she lifted it and breathed in the steam. “She’s dead. And she knew where my path lay, even as a boy.”
Carefully, she set the mug down, but kept her hands wrapped around it. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to resurrect ghosts.”
“It’s nothing. Been a while.” My own tea in hand, I walked over to the couch and sank down into a corner. She followed and sat in the opposite corner, bringing her feet beneath her. She did that practically every time she sat; I’d noticed.
“Will you tell me about it?”
“About my mother dying?”
“No!” As she shook her head her hair fell around her face in silky pale sheets. I glanced away. I wanted to wrap my hands in it, feel its silk against my skin. “Growing up. Being part of the mob. Stuff like that.”
“Ah. You need to be a bit more specific. I’m not sure where to start.”
She bit her lip. “All I know about the mob is what I learned from watchingThe Godfather—”
I snorted and she shot me a look that reminded me of Madge. “Sorry, go on.”
“Who are you to the boss? Why are you his assassin? Why did you decide to do it...the killing?”
“I’m his nephew, and I’m his cleaner because I showed aptitude for the position when I was young.”
“Showed aptitude? Does that mean...”
She shuddered and I smiled. “Does it mean I like to kill things? No. I’m not quite that depraved. It just means that I have no problem with balancing the scales, however that might need to happen.”
Her eyes narrowed on me over the rim of her cup. “What scales did you balance to bring yourself to your uncle’s attention?”
She was a keen one, this girl. And fearless, cutting through the bullshit to go straight to the heart of an issue, regardless of how sensitive it might be. I’d seen men killed for asking questions the way she was doing. I thought for a few minutes. I could refuse to answer. I could make something up. Conversely, I could confide my truth, ugly as it was, and hope it helped her to confide her own.
“Back in Ireland, my older sister was butchered by a rival gang when I was twelve. They held her hostage for three weeks and raped her repeatedly. Then they returned her to my uncle’s men there in Dublin. In pieces.” I caught her gaze and held it. “I slaughtered them in return.”
I saw the movement of her throat as she swallowed. “Oh.” She lowered her feet to the floor and stood, carrying her tea to the kitchen. “Good.”
